


Alea Iacta Est

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [10]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Historical, Ireland, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18270941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: He turns and stokes the fire for a bit more light and heat, looking over to see Diarmuid sitting up, scrubbing at bleary eyes, his hair an absolute riot of curls on their way to becoming elf-locks, with bits of straw and rush stuck here and there for good measure.(How he longs to card his hands through that hair, work loose the knots, and feel those curls dance through his fingers. But there is no time for what will follow.  Not today.)





	Alea Iacta Est

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.
> 
> (Sorry this took so long to post -- between overwork and the gloom of the political situation in the US, it's been hard to find the write headspace for writing.)

Alea iacta est -- the die has been cast

* * *

Sheer exhaustion isn't enough for him to sleep the night through. He rouses more than once to the sound of the horse snorting or due to a sudden chill when Diarmuid rolls and takes most of the cloaks with him.

Nothing wakes Diarmuid, though, not even wrenching a cloak back.

When the first shaft of sunlight edges beneath the roof, he climbs -- groaning from the stiffness that has settled in his joints -- dresses in his less damp now, but still rather chilly clothes, and sees to the horse, freeing it from the hobble and leading it to the wet grass outside. It crops the blades with relish. He tethers it to the wicker remnants of what was probably a byre, but for which animal, goat, sheep, or pig, he cannot say.

Diarmuid doesn't wake until shaken. 

He turns and stokes the fire for a bit more light and heat, looking over to see Diarmuid sitting up, scrubbing at bleary eyes, his hair an absolute riot of curls on their way to becoming elf-locks, with bits of straw and rush stuck here and there for good measure.

(How he longs to card his hands through that hair, work loose the knots, and feel those curls dance through his fingers. But there is no time for what will follow. Not today.)

He snorts with mirth -- he must look much the same, only with a heavier growth of beard. 

Diarmuid's eyes flash, and his heart swells with the yearning to press him back down into the tangle of cloaks and take his time with loving. 

But, he reminds himself, there is no time for that. Not today. It is well past first light and their pursuers are doubtless up and moving. He warms Diarmuid's damp habit over the fire for a few moments before handing it over. It's still chilly enough that there's a sharp intake of breath as Diarmuid pulls it over.

They eat a scant breakfast -- their supply of oats did not account for a horse -- and are about to take to the road, when, after a Diarmuid gives a short prayer to St. Patrick and the holy trinity for safe travels home, he stays Diarmuid's arm and speaks. "We should take a different road home. Kilmannan lies close to the borders of the Earldom of Thomond." Diarmuid nods at this. "We need to head deeper into Desmond, into the lands of the MacCarthy Mor, where the Normans will not dare to follow, before coming up again." 

"And then we will turn and follow the coast up?" He nods yes, and Diarmuid's dark eyes cloud over in thought. "I do not like it," he says softly, "I do not like it at all." Then those piercing eyes lock with his. "But I know that you are right."

He takes a deep breath before shaping his next words. "They are looking for a man at arms and a monk. We … may need to get a different set of clothes for you." Diarmuid's intake of breath is sharp as a slap. "But only for a day or two," he adds hastily.

Diarmuid's voice is barely audible as he replies, "I like that even less, my friend, but I am afraid you are right." There is steel in his voice as he finishes, "But only if we must."

He nods, takes Diarmuid's hand into his, and squeezes it to show he understands.

They walk through a few hamlets and through one larger village which is the market town for the surrounding area. They don't have much of a choice when it comes to making a purchase, so they exchange a silver penny for two large bags of oats, each the weight of a small child, and get a few coppers in return. They sling the oats over the saddle and move on.

Their appearance draws plenty of eyes. Hard travel marks them and they have a horse of the kind that a brother and a layman do not normally possess. But even if they did not have the horse or the silver, they would not pass unseen. Travelers in these parts are the exception, not the rule. He's counting on the animosity of these people to the Normans to see them safe. Though, given enough coin or the right threat, the crofters and smallholders will talk. He has no answers to that except entreaties to God and all the saints of Ireland.

In the afternoon, weary and chafed from hours walking in damp clothing, they come across a substantial and prosperous looking farmstead consisting of a large roundhouse with several outbuildings. The farmer, a man about his age, gives his name as Columba and his clan as O'Keeffe. A gaggle of children peep shyly from around the edges of the buildings, but he can also see some young men and women, probably Columba's oldest children, or his oldest and some bondsmen.

Columba is wary at first, but his eyes keep lingering on Diarmuid's robe, and eventually, he relents. They are welcome to supper and to stable their horse in the barn. It will be up to his wife, though, where they sleep.

As soon as they get their horse into the barn, wiped down with clean straw, and happily eating oats and fragrant hay, (done with some help from Brendan, one of Columba's sons), they cross the farmyard -- filled with chickens and geese -- and enter the main house.

Columba's got sons a plenty (two of them married) but only two daughters, both of whom are particularly ripe and ready for plucking into an advantageous marriage. He wonders if they sleep in the loft overhead. As his eyes adjust he can make out strings of sausages, hams, and sides of bacon hanging from the rafters, curing in the smoke before it eases through the thatch. The floor of the house is also divided into a few nooks at the edges, some with curtains for privacy, The rushes on the floor are clean and new.

Dorcas, Columba's wife, takes their cloaks and hangs them over a line to dry and invites them to sit closer to the fire. It feels good to sit and let the heat soak into his bones, easing aches he's lived with the past few days. She and Columba shoo the rest of the children out, or set them to chores, telling them that there will be time to hear the news the travelers bring, but after sundown, when it is time for such things. She also pish-poshes the idea of them sleeping any place but the main house. "A man of the Church in the barn? Father Fintan will never give us the end of it after his next trip through!"

He sees Columba's daughters eyeing Diarmuid as they tend to their weaving, but Dorcas is on to them with a look and a firm, "He's for the Church." Another young woman, who looks to be mid-way through her pregnancy, sits on a stool by the doorway, carding wool where the light is best. She's Sionell, the wife of Padraig, Columba's oldest son. The child will be their first.

The evening meal is a hearty stew rich in barley, onion, carrot, nettle shoots, and rabbits from the warren over yonder, seasoned with culpepper, served up with oatcakes and well salted butter. 

He longs for a second bowl, and a third after that, but they are unexpected guests and it would be asking much to take more from Columba and his sons who do the backbreaking daily work that makes this a prosperous farm. He does, however, content himself with an extra oatcake and a second tankard of buttermilk.

After dinner comes family time, the women spinning the wool they carded earlier that day and winding thread onto skeins for later weaving, while the men and the older boys carve, roughing out the shapes in the flickering firelight and the rushlights that Dorcas has carefully placed where their ashes cannot start a fire. The weaving and the fine woodworking will come during daylight hours. All of the older children and adults take turns telling tales or singing songs.

When it comes Diarmuid's turn, he tells tales from the bible: the story of Jonah and the whale, followed by the story of David and Goliath.

But at last comes the time for bed. The youngest boys have long since nodded off, and their parents tucked them, still sleeping, in a nook filled with clean straw. The girls look longingly at Diarmuid as their parents force them up the ladder to the loft, one of them protesting about her father's snores being loud enough without him being right next to her.

He and Diarmuid will bed down in the place where Dorcas and Columba normally sleep, right next to Padraig and Sionell. There's a bed box with a large bit of coarse-woven broadcloth covering the straw beneath, and even a woolen blanket. He and Diarmuid will not need their still drying cloaks for cover. They strip to their small clothes, draping everything else over a bench near the wall. The curtain is made of strips of plaited straw, sewn together. As soon as he draws it across the nook, the darkness is almost total.

To his tired bones, the simple bed feels as soft as feathers, and the scratchy broadcloth like a fine linen sheet.

Sleep should come, but his mind races, spinning over the events of past days as soon as he lays down and pulls the blanket up. Diarmuid lies next to him, not touching, and his too-stillness tells him that Diarmuid is awake.

It all feels too still, too quiet, and just as he's wondering if Colomba and his sons are waiting for them to fall asleep to kill them and rob them -- an uncharitable thought to be sure, but his past life has taught him not to trust too much the kindness of strangers -- the unmistakable sound of lovemaking comes from the other side of the wicker partition separating them from Padraig and Sionell. Muted to be sure, but there none the less.

In a heartbeat he's hard. A moment later, Diarmuid is on him, equally hard and wanting.

A part of him wants to say no, but the practical part of him says to take advantage of the sounds made by the couple next to them to cover any noise they might make.

It's only a few frantic moments of mutual hands chafing away, panting breaths, and clapping his hand over Diarmuid's mouth just in case of a groan, as the young man spends, hot and hard, triggering his own climax, a full body shudder and a groan he barely manages to bite back in time.

And then there's nothing more to be done but fumble for the edge of the broadcloth and find some clean straw for wiping the worst of it away.

He vows to himself that some day, as soon as he can make it happen, he vows again he will get Diarmuid in a quiet place and love him properly.

He's barely laid back down when sleep comes, and he knows nothing more until the insistent crowing of the rooster rouses them both to face the day.


End file.
